Moving Day

The cover of Terence Young’s new book of poetry, Moving Day (Signature), features a photograph of a 116-year-old converted barn, where I once attended an enjoyable party. The party, hosted by the Youngs as a celebration for the Victoria School of Writing, featured much revelry, dancing and general merrymaking on the ancient, squeaky (but sturdy) porch of the structure as Young spun records from his extensive collection of classic rock and bubblegum pop hits, pausing only to dismiss the tasteless musical requests of the high-spirited literary crowd. If it was a memory that drew me into Moving Day, it was the extraordinary magnitude of the verses inside that held me. Young approaches his writing as he approaches life, with generosity of spirit, a powerful sense of humour and a keen eye. The house in this book stands as glorious metaphor for the heart of the family, but never becomes a cliché: it is a place where the possibilities of love are “like the sound of a window giving way/under the weight of a shoulder.” Young moves through personal history with the ease of someone flipping through the weathered pages of a family photo album, discussing the past and present but also noting the near future, a time when, after all is said and done, “everything will seem too brief.”